You are alone in your bedroom, your naked body caressed by flickering candlelit shadows; the light dances across the images of sex above your bed and around the room, making your skin smooth and perfect in a soft golden glow. Music surrounds you, envelops you; from far away I know what time it is with you and I wonder what you are doing at this very moment.
Your body is warm. You kneel in the softness of your bed and survey the pictures that arouse you; you imagine what it might be like to taste my flesh now or to feel the body of another man; you think of me.
You touch a finger to your lips, close your eyes and pretend this finger is mine; take it gently into the heat of your mouth and wet it with your hungry tongue. With your other arm you hold yourself, wrapping closely around your chest, squeezing your breasts together in the comfort of each other.
You remove the finger and trace your lips with hot wetness and imagine that you feel an ache for my mouth as I sit, so far away, idly watching television with her; I wonder Kathy, if you recognize the tingling of your lips as my telepathic kiss?
You never open your eyes. You let your arms fall to your sides and sink into the music that fills your bedroom room like the pounding of my heart; still on your knees, your ass resting on the heels of your feet, you pretend that you sense me.
You touch the fullness of your thighs, the sharp protrusion of your hips and the slope of your pussy, so lonely right now. You use both hands to travel the length of your torso: your stomach, your waist and the roundness of your beautiful breasts. You take time to trace your nipples in teasing circles; you notice how they darken with your touch and how they excite you. You cross your arms and feel the line of your shoulders. You wrap your hands around your neck, squeezing briefly.
Is it hard to catch your breath for a moment? Does the sudden tightening around your throat remind you of me? What sensations course through your body right now?
You leave your neck and run your fingers through your hair, again and again; it is soft, like watered silk. You shut your eyes and pretend that it is my hands in your hair, tugging with a pressure to remind you that you belong to me; you arch your throat to receive my absent kiss. You have an image in your mind that you are feeling stirred; that a passing thought of me in your arms is temporarily distracting you.
You believe I can see you, this picture of waiting sex so warm and aching for me. In your head you think I close my eyes to see this picture better, only to have the woman beside me think I might be tired. She asks, 'Are you okay, David?' You imagine me smile at her in reassurance, saying 'I'm fine, I just want to rest my eyes'.